deny deny deny
by Nyx Raisa
Summary: Drew McIntyre shows a passing interest in John Morrison. What happens when John denies him? Is Drew REALLY that sympathetic? Drew Mac/John Morrison, Miz/Morrison pairings. Rated for later chapters.
1. Liar

"So what's the story with you and Mizanin?"

John turned his head sharply, his skin pricking as it always did when someone mentioned his ex-tag team partner and former best friend. He eyed the man to whom he'd just lost his intercontinental title, dismissed the comment as an attempt to get further under his skin, and went back to folding and stowing his ring gear.

"Nothing," he replied, hoping the Scot would drop the subject.

"Now, you see, I don't think that's true."

Drew eyed him, a knowing smirk twisted across his lips. He was leaning against the bank of lockers a few feet away, his hair loose against his shoulders and damp from the shower he'd just taken. John met that coolly amused gaze, keeping his face carefully expressionless. It was a ruse; had to be. Drew just won the title, perhaps this was some peculiar Scottish brand of gloating.

"Well, I don't think you know what you're talking about. We're friends, I don't know what else—"

In a flurry of movement, John was pressed up against the very locker he had just been using, one of Drew's hands around his neck, the other curled around his hip and holding him in place. He looked up at Drew, disconcerted by the height difference, by having to look _up_ into someone's face… to have someone physically looming over him.

"You're lying." Drew said quietly, staring calmly into John's eyes.

"Get off of me," he hissed, pushing at the other man's shoulders; Drew moved not so much as an inch.

"Stop lying to yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" John said and then bit his lip; he really hadn't meant to say that quite so loudly. He struggled harder against the hold Drew had on him; for a moment it seemed he had pushed the man back, and then he was slammed against the locker, rattling his spine and aggravating his already sore body.

"I saw how you looked at him, I could read it on your face." He leaned in further, whispering the next words directly into John's ear. "I can read it on your face now." The hand that had previously been pressed against John's hip wandered beneath the tails of his button-down shirt, fingertips tracing the ridges of those unbelievably perfect abs. "I can help you forget about him…."

John pushed Drew away from him with the last of his strength; he managed to unbalance the taller man and he stumbled back a few steps. He regained his balance quite easily and his eyes flashed with something that might have been anger if not for the smirk that remained on his face. John was breathing heavily, his back against the locker and his hands clenched into fists. He knew he should grab his duffel bag and leave the locker room and respectfully request to have no further matches with Drew McIntyre.

That was what he should have done.

Instead he stood still against the cold metal, staring wide-eyed and unbelieving at the overwhelming brashness of this man's words and actions.

Drew just kept smirking at him – not a grin, not even so much of a smile, just that half upturned devilish smirk – and then reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a plain white card that John almost instantly recognized as a hotel room key. His could feel his jaw want to drop – so fucking _bold_ – but he pressed his lips together instead. The keycard was dropped casually beside John's duffel bag, and with a final darkly promising glance, sauntered casually out of the locker room.

John remained frozen to the locker for an untold amount of time, unable to believe everything that had just happened. He might have thought he imagined the whole thing, stress, sleep-deprivation, something, except for the unassuming white keycard sitting next to his bag. With a little shake, he got moving and reached out to grab his stuff and get the holy hell out of there. He slung the bag over his shoulder and stopped, looking down at the keycard. A vague story spun through his mind; he shouldn't leave the card there, maybe someone would find it, or maybe he should just give the card back, tell Drew he was sorry he had the wrong idea. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out for the little square of plastic... and then he snatched it off the bench and jammed it into his back pocket.


	2. A Matter of Trust

Author's Notes: Hi. I'm back. This story has changed on me several times. It was going to be shmoopy, but that was wrong. It was then going to get dark – I actually have about 2500 words of a much, much darker fic. But that wasn't quite right either. So I sat and I pondered and now, I think, I THINK I found it. Sorry for the delay, I do believe we'll be able to get on with it now. I hope it's still good. Thank you to those of you who've read and left your thoughts, it is always greatly appreciated.

John stood outside the hotel room door, nervously tapping the keycard against the back of his hand.

_Tik tik tik tik tik tik tik…_. After a moment he realized what he was doing and made himself stop. Two seconds later he was doing it again. He was only giving Drew his key back, telling the Scot he had the wrong idea, and leave. So there was no reason why he should be nervous. None at all.

He told himself to quit being an idiot – hearing the insult in Miz's voice, as so often happened – and was reaching out to slide the key in the lock when the door opened ahead of his reaching fingers.

"You've been out there for fifteen minutes. I thought I'd save you the trouble." Drew leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. "Would you like to come in, or shall I give you fifteen more minutes to think about it?"

John wasn't sure if he was shocked, insulted or embarrassed. He settled for clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes slightly at the taller man. "I came to return your key."

"Well, that's very kind of you," he said as he took the proffered keycard from John's fingers. "Would you like to come in?"

"No. I'm not interested in… anything like that. You got the wrong idea about me, Drew. And I'd appreciate it if you left me alone from now on."

Drew's smile slipped a notch as John turned to walk away. He reached out and grabbed the other man's arm, fingers curling just above the elbow.

"I acted out of turn earlier and I'm sorry. I just put up some coffee; come inside and let me apologize properly, not in the hallway for the whole world to witness."

Everything logical in John's mind was telling him to pull away from Drew and go back to his own room; stepping over that threshold would only lead him to ruin.

So he met Drew's cool blue eyes, huffed out a breath and nodded, following him back into his hotel room. The room smelled strongly of fresh brewed coffee; obviously that hadn't been a lie. He sat down at the generic little table and watched as Drew set about getting the coffee ready. It was rather remarkable, how different he seemed; sauntering around casually in a plain black tee and pajama pants, hair halfheartedly tugged into a low ponytail and tossed over his shoulder, he seemed younger and less… overwhelming. Not that John had been overwhelmed by him earlier, of course… merely caught off-guard.

A steaming mug of coffee was placed in front of him and Drew took the seat across the table, long fingers wrapped around the chipped white mug. John found himself remembering the way those fingers slid so brazenly under his shirt and he had to fight a shiver. He wrapped his hands around the mug, feeling the warmth sink into his palms. The two men sipped their coffee in not-entirely-awkward silence.

"So tell me about him," Drew said quietly. John froze and very carefully set his mug back on the table.

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do. Don't insult my intelligence or your own."

John didn't reply, merely stared into the mug as though it held an explanation he could use that didn't involve discussing the single largest indiscretion of his entire life.

"John." He slowly raised his head and met Drew's eyes, watching him with something that might be sympathy. "You can trust me."

"Can I?" he asked sharply.

"In the end it's up to you. You can get up and leave right now; I won't stop you." Drew gestured vaguely towards the door.

John took a deep breath and, addressing the depths of his coffee mug instead of the man across from him, began to speak.


	3. Remember

Author's Notes: In which Miz hijacks my fic. Chapter is M for fondly recalled raunch. Enjoy.

"We met in 2007… I hated him at first. He was loud, and annoying, and so green you almost wanted to take pity on him… if he wasn't so busy trying to prove to everyone how great he was."

_"Mike Mizanin," he said, reaching out a hand. "But you can call me the Miz."_

_"John Hennigan," he replied with a smirk. "And you can just call me John."_

_"Looks like we're gonna be feuding sometime in the near future. Don't worry, I'll go easy on ya."_

_John raised an eyebrow, amused by the bold words. He'd seen a newbie wrestler a time or two – he'd been one himself, of course – but Mike sounded absolutely sure of himself. The other new wrestlers John had encountered knew they were full of shit; if Mike knew any such thing, he wasn't letting on. _

_"You're full of shit. They teach you that on MTV?" _

_He watched with a grin as Mike's eyes darkened and his face turned stony. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away. _

"Of course, I didn't realize how out of character that was for him, just walking away. He always had to have the last word. Not to mention how badly I'd pissed him off. Everyone ragged on him about his stint in reality TV. But it just made him work that much harder, to prove to everyone –the other guys, Vince, the fans – that he deserved to be there. That he was more than just a reality TV has-been. I had to admire that kind of determination. He worked for everything they ever gave him. They never handed anything to him, not his contract, not our tag titles…." John's voice trailed off as he remembered what happened when they'd won their first set of tag team titles.

He took a sip of lukewarm coffee. This was something he'd never spoken about, not to anyone. Melina suspected – he had seen the question in her eyes, especially after his match at Bragging Rights – but she never asked.

"We got to be friends, especially once we started tag teaming and we were always together. We traveled together, roomed together, worked out together half the time…. Everybody always asked me how I could stand being around him all the time, but they didn't understand…. He was different outside of the locker room, away from the lights. Not as arrogant, not as obnoxious. Not The Miz… just this guy from somewhere, Ohio."

Another sip of coffee; the mug was almost empty. Wordlessly Drew stood up, both of their mugs in hand, and refilled them with hot, fresh coffee. John knew he was rambling, more reminiscing than confessing, but Drew just put the full mug down in front of him, sat silently and waited patiently for the story to continue.

"We won the WWE tag team titles, and Mike told me we had to go out and celebrate our victory. It was his first official WWE title. Wouldn't take no for an answer."

John closed his eyes as the memories he tried so hard to forget washed over him.

_He remembers Mike's eyes, wide and bright blue. He's grinning ear to ear, a result of winning, adrenaline, celebration, booze or some combination thereof. It's almost 3am and Mike's gotten them both kicked out of the last bar in town. John's not much of a partier, a drinker even less, and as a result of trying to keep up with Mike, is quite drunk. They manage to find their hotel, stumble into the elevator and find their room, with much slurring, raucous laughing, and complete disregard for the other hotel patrons._

_John doesn't remember opening the door or weaving across the room; what he does remember is flopping backwards onto the bed. He remembers Mike flopping in a similar fashion next to him. He remembers smiling goofily at his friend and telling him he was on the wrong bed. What he does not remember is how he ended up half pinned beneath Mike's body, his breath warm and beer-sour ghosting across his lips. He does not know why his hands are gripping Mike's shoulders so hard and he tries to tell himself it is because he is trying to push the other man away. This, of course, does not explain why his lips part so eagerly, or why he cannot keep himself from grinding against Mike's thigh, or why he cannot silence the slight whimpers he hears himself making. _

_He wakes up the next morning, his head pillowed on Mike's bare shoulder, his arm slung over Mike's bare hips. _

_He does not want to remember how he reacts when he realizes what has happened… but he does._


	4. Too Late

**Notes: Hi. I apologize for the relative suckiness of this part. However, if you slog through it, I absolutely promise the next part is totally worth it. That's also where the M (finally!!!) comes in. It's worth it. I promise.**

"I panicked," John said quietly. "I ran out of the room, wouldn't talk to him until we were at the arena that night. Even then… I told him it was a mistake. An aberration. It would never happen again and we would never talk about it."

"But it did."

"Yeah…" John couldn't help the slight smile that crossed his face. "It was something that was never supposed to happen. But then it just… kept happening."

"And then…?"

The little smile on John's face faded.

"Melina wanted to give it a second try. Maybe I was stupid to take her back, but… I told Mike we had to stop what we were doing. He got pretty mad at me. Well… that's an understatement. He went to Vince, said he wanted to split the team and go solo. Vince loved the idea. We lost our titles, he went to Raw and I went to Smackdown. We've tried to avoid each other as much as possible since then."

John drifted back into silence. He hadn't expected to ever tell anyone about what happened with Mike, and yet he had just told the whole story to a man he barely knew. A man he wasn't even entirely sure he could trust. He sighed deeply and ran a hand over his face. Too late now.

He opened his eyes to see Drew watching him with curiosity from across the table.

"Do you feel better, having told someone?" he asked.

John just shrugged halfheartedly and sipped his coffee. They sat in silence for a while, only broken by the clunk of mugs or the slurp of coffee.

He was halfway through his cup of coffee when his head started to feel heavy. It had been a long day, with another long day to follow; it was time to go back to his own room and call it a night.

"Drew… I appreciate what you've done, but it's getting late. I should go."

"You're welcome. I'm sorry about… earlier today."

"Yeah, well… some guys respond to that. But… just don't do it again, okay?"

Drew raised the hand that wasn't on the coffee mug, looking the very picture of innocence, a proper smile crossing his face. John smiled slightly in response, but couldn't stop himself from putting voice to a nagging doubt.

"How do I know you won't tell anyone about Mike and I? It could mean my job… his job. I couldn't do that to him."

"Well, I suppose if I ever ran off and tattled on you like a wee lad, what's to stop you from going off and telling Vince that I nearly attacked you in the locker room? It would probably mean my job as well."

John was silent, mulling it over; he did have a good point there. It wasn't exactly a comfortable trust, more along the lines of mutual blackmail than anything else. But… it would have to be enough.

"I think it's a deal," he said, reaching out a hand. Drew met him halfway and they exchanged a handshake over steaming mugs of coffee. "And now I really have to head out. I'll see you at the show tomorrow."

He made his way across the room, leaving without another word. Drew stayed at the table, sipping the last of his coffee as he pondered everything John had told him. A slow smile crossed his face as all the possible scenarios played through his mind. Unfortunately, what he told John was the absolute truth; he could not tell anyone, lest his own indiscretions come out in the open. That was rather foolish, now that he thought about it. Oh well, too late to do anything about it now.

It really was a shame he couldn't use this newfound information for his own devices. There really was a lot of fun to be had… if only his job wasn't on the line as well.

But then again, he thought, glancing at his cell phone, the night was still young… perhaps his fun wasn't entirely a foregone conclusion after all.


	5. Time

**Notes: Did you all make it here? I hope so. This is my favorite, favorite part so far. This is also where the M comes in (see, I wasn't making it up.) so you've been appropriately warned. Hokay? Hokay. As always, reviews and concrit and general squee and flail is definitely appreciated.**

John slept fitfully the night before, tossing and turning and drifting into sleep only to snap awake from dreams he cared not to remember. Melina, who slept like a log, especially after nights she'd wrestled, didn't notice her lover's restless behavior. Eventually he curled up behind her, pressing his lips to her shoulder, breathing her in.

He managed to get enough sleep that night so that he was not completely exhausted the next day. It was a live taping of Raw, one of the tri-brand supershows, and he was set to call out Drew for a rematch. And lose. Again. Creative was being rather tight-lipped as to why he was on a losing streak; all they would tell him was it would make a larger impact at Wrestlemania. That was fine; it was nice, in a way, to not have all that pressure. He didn't have to worry about being perfect.

As he waited for Melina to get ready and get all her luggage together, he went down to the front desk to check out for the day. Much to his surprise, Drew had left him a brief message.

_John – I'd like to go over our match before the taping. If you could get to the arena early, I'd really appreciate it. Drew_

There wasn't anything particularly special about their match that evening; besides, John was the one who had all the tough aerobatics. But maybe the young superstar was – finally! – having a moment of self-doubt. John ran through the times and distances in his head and after a quick session of mental math, decided he probably would be able to get to the arena early enough for a practice run-through or two.

If he could get Melina out of the hotel room quickly enough, that was.

~*~

John surprised himself by arriving at the arena 45 minutes earlier than he had anticipated, perhaps because Melina offered to catch a ride in with Maria, so she wouldn't have to be there as early. As it was, the event staff had only just finished setting up the ring as John walked backstage. It was eerily silent without the shouts of other superstars and staff and assistants. And Drew was nowhere to be found.

He tried not to get annoyed as he headed toward the locker room, the last place he had to check. Hopefully this wasn't some kind of stupid passive-aggressive practical joke, making him show up ridiculously early, getting him back for not fucking him when it had been offered. But Drew had seemed completely sincere last night, apologizing more than once for his behavior. John sighed and headed down the hall towards the locker room. He was probably in there just getting changed or something.

As he reached out, curling his hand around the cool metal handle of the door, he heard something out of place. He should have paused and listened before opening the door. He should have recognized the sounds coming from inside that room instead of just furrowing his brows and moving forward anyway.

But he didn't.

He pulled open the door and slid through, reaching behind with his other hand to keep it from clunking into the doorframe, as so many locker room doors were prone to do. One step, another, that strange noise that didn't seem like it belonged in a locker room, and then John was confronted with an image that he simply could not process.

Time suddenly moved very slowly, and he had time enough to see everything perfectly, hellishly clear.

Mike pressed against the lockers, eyes closed and head thrown back, breathing hard and muttering a steady stream of mostly incoherent obscenities. One hand was clenched in a death grip, fingers twined around the long hair of the man currently fucking him to oblivion against a locker door. The other was wrapped around his cock, stroking quickly.

"Drew, fuck, I'm fuckin' close—" he panted.

John had time to vaguely recall similar words directed at him, once-upon-a-time. Time to watch Drew slam over and over and over again into his former best friend and former lover. Time to watch a bead of sweat slide languorously down the side of Mike's face, the side of his neck. Time to watch Drew's fingers dig into Mike's thighs, to see the muscles flex with the exertion. Time to hear him groan, watch his hips buck into his hand as he came—

The door slipped out of John's nerveless fingers and clunked against the doorframe. The sound reverberated through the locker room, and echoed into silence.


	6. Instead

**Notes: This chapter's for MiataCatashi. May it sustain you a little bit longer xD In other notes, lot of chat in this bit. But it's necessary. I have no idea what the next chapter looks like. I have roughly five billion other stories in my head, and it's hard to focus on which one to write. Anyway, I hope you like this bit and I'll try to get the next one out of my head soon. *crosses fingers***

Mike's eyes widened to a point that would probably be comical under different circumstances. He dropped his gaze and started cursing under his breath. "Shit. Fuck. Drew…?" Drew obliged the unanswered question and set Mike back on his feet, where he swayed slightly before leaning heavily against the lockers. The Scot was already pulling his clothes back on, smirking widely at the door John had rapidly just exited from.

The man in question had made it three, perhaps four steps into the hallway before he had to lean against the cool cinderblock wall and catch his breath. Drew… and Mike. He didn't want to believe it had happened. If not for the images now playing on permanent replay behind his closed eyelids, he might not have believed it at all. Mike. Drew. _Fucking_.

"Shit," he whispered to himself.

The door to the locker room swung open and John straightened up quickly, instantly alert, his stomach roiling. Mike stood in front of him, cheeks flushed from exertion or embarrassment, or perhaps both. He met John's eyes, opened his mouth to speak… and then closed it again, clenching his jaw and shaking his head. With an icy glare, he strode off down the hallway, not looking back.

Drew. This was his fault. What had he done?

With sudden anger he slammed back into the locker room, striding up to Drew, who was only in jeans and sitting on the bench.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" John yelled.

"Your parents must not have done well explaining the birds and the bees to you, did they? I should think it was fairly self-evident." He smirked up at John.

"Don't fucking play games with me, you smug bastard."

Drew was on his feet and John was pressed against the lockers – still warm from Mike's body – before he could fully comprehend the movement. He was actually lifted slightly off his feet by the hands curled into the front of his jacket.

"I highly suggest you refrain from name-calling." He spoke quietly, staring calmly at John, but there was no mistaking the controlled anger in his voice.

After a moment he let go, and John dropped solidly back onto his feet. He took a deep breath, wrinkling his nose slightly at the scent of musk and sex that still hung overpowering in the air.

"Why him?" John asked, hearing the plaintive note in his voice, but being unable to stop himself. "Everyone on the roster, why did you have to choose him?"

"Ah, now that is the question, isn't it?" Drew stepped back with his arms crossed over his bare chest.

"I want you to stay away from him."

The teasing, amused look dropped off his face immediately. "I don't think it's any of your business whom I choose to fuck," he said, his voice low. After a moment, the smirk resurfaced on his face. "And besides, aren't you a bit of a hypocrite to be playing the jealous ex-lover? As I recall, _you_ gave him up. Quite coldly, as well."

John was silent. He couldn't argue. Drew spoke the absolute truth. He had given up Mike, without absolutely any thought of the other man's feelings, thinking only of himself, his career and his future.

"Leave him alone, I'm warning you."

"Oh, you're _warning _me. What are you going to do? Run off to Vince and whine like a bitch? You can't do that, remember? We discussed that last night. And besides, why should I leave him alone? He's quite an excellent fuck… but you have firsthand knowledge of that, don't you?"

John shut his eyes, but it could only do so much. He'd clap his hands over his ears and hum the Star-Spangled Banner if it would drown out Drew's words. Unfortunately he was not five years old, and that tactic simply wouldn't work. He could still hear the man talking, discussing in great length and meticulous detail his encounter with Mike.

"Drew… please. Don't... don't do this to him."

"Well, isn't that selfless of you. Why shouldn't I do this to him? Or perhaps you have some suggestions for things I _should_ do to him?"

"Can't you just find someone else?"

"Oh, but I've already grown rather fond of him." Drew smiled cheerfully at John, who had opened his eyes and was staring back with something that resembled defeat. "Well, if it means that much to you, do you have any suggestions as to who I should replace him with?"

John's gazed dropped to the floor and his shoulders slumped. He was silent for a long moment, and then a heavy sigh worked its way out from his chest.

"Me," he whispered. "Have… have me instead."


End file.
